


Maybe I'll Burn A Little Brighter Tonight

by SnitchesAndTalkers



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Broken Promises, Ex Sex, Halloween, Loneliness, M/M, Pumpkins, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 07:25:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12576684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers
Summary: “We’re not married any more,” Pete shrugs and Patrick sees - though he pretends not to - the flash of hurt in amber eyes, the way his shoulders sag just a little. The first time Pete showed up he wasn’t wearing it and it had sliced through Patrick like burning blades, his own ring tucked snugly on the third finger of his left hand because, goddammit, he still felt married. He stillfeelsmarried.“Yeah, well,” Patrick feels the fury drain out of him, only hollow, aching sadness left behind as he wipes a hand over his eyes. “That wasn’t exactly my choice, was it?”“No,” Pete shakes his head with the kind of melancholy smile that punches Patrick directly in the stomach. “I guess it wasn’t. I’m sorry.”Patrick needs this. No matter how much hurts.Part of Trick Or Pete 2017!





	Maybe I'll Burn A Little Brighter Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Happy Halloween everyone! This is another addition to the Trick Or Pete collection that's been organised over on Tumblr and I'd like to say thank you so much to everyone who participated and urge you all to go and read their contributions because they're utterly amazing, every one of them.
> 
> Now, on with the angst (and pumpkins!)...

Patrick is angry.

 

It didn’t start that way. At seven he was hopeful, waiting with eager anticipation for the front door to click and familiar footsteps to echo down the hallway. Though with the time that stretches interminably between the instances he gets to hear them, he swears that they grow less familiar each time. Anyway, that was at seven, a full bowl of Halloween candy by the door and kids laughing on the street outside.

 

By eight he was verging on pissed off, had turned to the whisky in the cabinet that he knows he shouldn’t drink quite so much of and yet… What, exactly, is the point in _not_ drinking it? Just a few measures, it couldn’t harm, could it? It didn’t inhibit his ability to hand out candy - the good stuff, peanut butter pumpkins, full size candy bars, the things Pete always made him buy - it just lent a small amount of purpose to the time between doorbell rings.

 

Nine saw him shift to worried, to pacing the room and pausing to flick the occasional hopeful glance out of the living room window. He knew he wouldn’t see him, he never did, that motherfucker is _stealthy_ and the first he’d ever know of his arrival would be that click and the familiar-not-familiar footfalls. 

 

By ten worry had given way to hopeless tears and yet more whisky. He wasn’t coming. Not this time, and then what? If he didn’t come - how could Patrick know if he’d ever show up again? This is their “thing”, their process, the silly little dance that they do with one another and Pete isn’t following the rules.

 

Eleven saw the anger flare as bright and burning as the whisky. Eleven saw him throwing things, smashing the Jamesons bottle against the wall with a scream of rage and fury. 

 

Every. Fucking. _Time._

 

It’s like Pete just doesn't realise - doesn't _care_ \- that these fucking _dalliances_ keep Patrick going, keep him placing one fucking foot in front of the other even on the days when it seems impossible, when it seems like just staying in bed is the best possible option because _existing_ is just too raw. 

 

But now, it’s close to midnight, the minute hand dragging closer second by second and the furious rage has ebbed away leaving nothing but searing, painful anger, hard and sharp at the edges, carving a hole in Patrick’s chest. He’s not fucking coming. He slams back the whisky like it’s to blame and begins to haul himself to his feet.

 

_Click._

 

He pauses, half in, half out of the armchair. It’s not a particularly dignified position, he realises that, but he waits, head cocked and ears trained on the hallway.

 

_Thump, thump, thump._

 

“Hey, baby,” Pete greets him from the doorway, lounging against the frame with the same sad smile painted on his face that he wears every fucking time. 

 

“Don’t fucking _baby_ me,” Patrick snarls. He considers grabbing the tumbler from the coffee table and hurling it at Pete’s stupid fucking head but - _calm down, Patrick_ \- manages to pull it back to just an ugly sneer and expansive, but mostly incredibly drunk, hand gesture as he slumps back down into the chair. “Finally decided to show up, huh?”

 

“You know I get here when I can,” Pete sighs, running a hand through his hair. Patrick snorts, hard and mirthless at the back of his throat, an ugly, bitter burst of noise that makes Pete wince away from him, cutting accusation sharp on his tongue. “You’ve been drinking.”

 

_“You’ve been drinking,”_ Patrick mimics unkindly with a roll of his eyes. Eyes that flick down to Pete’s left hand with a stab of pain that never seems to lessen, no matter how many times he sees it. “And _you’re_ not wearing your wedding ring.”

 

“We’re not married any more,” Pete shrugs and Patrick sees - though he pretends not to - the flash of hurt in amber eyes, the way his shoulders sag just a little. The first time Pete showed up he wasn’t wearing it and it had sliced through Patrick like burning blades, his own ring tucked snugly on the third finger of his left hand because, goddammit, he still felt married. He still _feels_ married.

 

“Yeah, well,” Patrick feels the fury drain out of him, only hollow, aching sadness left behind as he wipes a hand over his eyes. “That wasn’t exactly my choice, was it?”

 

“No,” Pete shakes his head with the kind of melancholy smile that punches Patrick directly in the stomach. “I guess it wasn’t. I’m sorry.”

 

“For which part?” Patrick hauls himself to his feet and heads to the kitchen, senses Pete moving behind him to follow. “Being late? Or leaving me?”

 

There’s a long silence between them. Patrick braces his hands against the back of one of the stools that surround the island and stares out of the window. It’s black as pitch out in the backyard and he can’t see anything but the kitchen they chose together reflected back at him, his own haunted eyes and Pete’s face, tight with pain, behind him. He won’t speak first, he _always_ speaks first and it’s… It’s not fucking _fair._

 

“Both,” Pete offers, stepping close behind Patrick. He doesn’t touch him but the suggestion of a presence is there, the warmth of his body heat and the low, electric hum that human bodies seem to radiate to one another when they're pressed in close proximity. Patrick closes his eyes and fights the urge to lean back, to sag into him like some pathetically grateful kid, desperate for contact. Even though he absolutely _is_ both pathetically grateful and desperate for contact. Pete continues, his voice low and soft, “I saw the pumpkins outside - very cute - did many kids show up?”

 

“Yeah,” Patrick sighs, raking his hands through his hair. It looks a fucking mess, his reflection tells him that, his face ghost pale and his hair standing in ridiculous tufts and peaks. “It was fun. You remember Carla and Maria across the street? They adopted, they’ve got these two year old twins and they’re just… Oh man, they’re fucking adorable, I swear to God. They had little matching pumpkin outfits and…”

 

He can’t continue, the tears are burning the back of his throat but he won’t cry. He won’t shed a single fucking tear in front of that asshole. He won’t cry for the things he and Pete didn’t do, the kids that didn’t happen, the house that rings with emptiness except on the nights - just like tonight - when Pete decides to grace him with his presence. He should move on, their marriage has been over for years now, he should find someone new and stop letting Pete fucking _do_ this to him, time after pathetic time.

 

“I’m sorry,” Pete repeats, hand warm against Patrick’s hip. “I wish I’d seen them.”

 

“Right,” Patrick nods, businesslike, sniffing back his tears and gesturing in the vague direction of the oven. “I made dinner but that was five hours ago. It’s ruined now.” He lets it hang unspoken that he’s not just talking about the seafood linguine, the delicate scallops and carefully made cream sauce, sitting dried out and inedible - just an ugly husk. Relatable.

 

“We could still eat it, I’m sure it’s fine… Pete trails off as he crosses to open the door, stooping to peer inside. He gusts a sigh at the sight, “Oh. Well… We could order in? Pizza?”

 

“It’s too late, Pete,” Patrick shrugs and - again - he’s not simply talking about food. “Could we just… Get on with what you came here for?”

 

“I came here to see you,” Pete won’t look at him, he closes the oven door but continues to stare down at the stove, shoulders tense. “Why do you do this every time? Do you want it to stop?”

 

That pulls Patrick up short, his breath catching solid at the back of his throat. Stop? No, he absolutely doesn’t want it to stop, he can’t bear the thought of it ending, of it coming to a close. He shakes his head like a desperate plea but Pete’s not facing him, can’t see, needs to hear, “No… I’m… I don’t think I’m ready for that. Please, Pete.”

 

The last two words are a whispered prayer though he’s not sure if Pete’s an angel here to comfort him or a demon sent to torment him. He decides it probably doesn’t matter as he steps in behind him and finally - with a shudder of visceral relief - he presses their bodies together, the lines of Pete’s back fitting like puzzle pieces against the angles of his chest. His arms are tight around Pete’s waist, lips against the back of his neck and nose tucked just behind his ear, the satin soft skin that feels like velvet and smells like home. “Please, Pete,” he repeats like whispered secrets. “Just… come to bed?”

 

The first time Pete had shown up at the door they’d barely made it out of the hallway. His cock stirs at the memory of warm hands against his hips and a hot mouth around his dick, sucking him like the world would tip off its axis if he stopped. They’d fallen asleep tangled on the couch together, the familiar press of Pete’s weight against his chest like an anchor. But he’d woken alone. The same as he’s woken alone every time since. The next time Pete shows up he always apologises, it’s never _his_ fault, but the end result is the same - a cold bed and a sore back are the only things Patrick gets to take away with him until the next time.

 

But now he knows, now he’s aware of the rules - even if he doesn’t accept them - he makes damn sure he takes his time. Taking his time involves the California queen bed they bought together and high thread count sheets. It’s showering together afterwards and collapsing back into bed for another round, insisting into a neck that’s slick with sweat and thrums with vibrant heat that this time, he _won’t_ fall asleep. _If I don’t fall asleep, you can’t leave_. 

 

But he always does. And Pete always can.

 

The walk to the bedroom feels like an eternity, fingers laced as he pulls Pete along. He’s gripping Pete’s left hand in his right and it shouldn’t fucking hurt as much as it does not to feel that smooth, platinum band against fingers. He takes comfort in the warm solidity of the fingers wound through his, the thud-thump of Pete’s sneakers against the stairs and the soft, even puffs of his breath against the back of Patrick’s neck. His willpower crumbles halfway up the stairs and he presses Pete back to the wall, tongue tracing lips as tears track salt against his cheeks. He shouldn’t cry, he _swore_ he wouldn’t fucking cry this time.

 

“I fucked someone else, you know,” he pants, clawing red tracks onto Pete's back under his shirt. He wants to hurt him. Wants to leave marks and scars with sharp words and blunt fingernails, wants to carve a fucking masterpiece of misery right there onto inked skin in sweeps of crimson pain. “After the last time?”

 

“Right,” Pete nods, a staccato movement of his head as he drags Patrick closer. Why doesn’t he care? Why won’t he fucking _care?_ Patrick burns with the injustice of it. “That's good.”

 

“Yeah, he was,” he taunts him, hates that Pete doesn’t react beyond a nip of his teeth, sharp and bright against Patrick’s lower lip. “He was _so_ good, _so_ fucking _big_ …”

 

“I’m glad,” Pete’s warm and solid in front of him, his breath a heated suggestion against Patrick’s throat. He slides a hand into the hair at the nape of Pete’s neck, pulls him in until he’s sucking gently at _that_ spot on his throat, the one that makes shocks pulse on blood cells straight to his cock. He pulls off to lick at Patrick’s ear, the whisper of breath enough to make him shudder against the rapidly cooling slick of saliva left behind. “I want you to move on. Will you see him again?”

 

See him again? Patrick wants to laugh. A regrettable Tinder hookup borne from a moment of searing loneliness. He’d cried though he’d tried to hide it by burying his face in the pillow - Pete’s fucking pillow, thought it hasn’t smelled of him for years - but there was only so long the guy was going to believe it was tremors of ecstasy. He’d left, the idea of fucking a crying, middle-aged man who’d called him _Pete_ more than once clearly too weird to be paid off with something as basic as a lacklustre orgasm. But he can’t tell Pete that so instead he shrugs, casual and devil-may-care, delivering his _fuck you_ in a low voice that he pretends doesn’t waver with tears, “I don’t know. Maybe I will. I deserve to, I deserve someone that’s _here.”_

 

“You do,” Pete agrees sadly as he pulls back to look at Patrick from hollow eyes, to graze the back of his knuckles lightly over the curve of Patrick’s cheek. That’s not the response Patrick wants, it’s not the fire and passion and swearing to stay that he craves, it’s weak and pathetic and kicks the can down the road for Patrick to deal with - alone - once again. “I just want you to be happy, baby.”

 

_“Baby,”_ he repeats with what he wants to be a sneer, but somehow turns into a sob. He was never one for stupid pet names, hated _Patty_ and _Tricky, Rickster_ and _Lunchbox_ and all of the other more generic things lovers are supposed to adore - sweetheart and darling and sugar. _Patrick_ was fine, he’d always insisted, just _Patrick._ But when they were alone _baby_ was okay. _Baby_ was morning sex under crisp, white sheets when they could take their time and luxuriate in one another. It was giggling, drunk sex after an awards ceremony when Patrick couldn’t seem to locate Pete’s ass with both hands and a dick that wouldn't stay hard. It was watching Star Wars for the three hundredth time while the rain lashed against the living room window until _watching Star Wars_ turned into searching hands and wet, red mouths on wet, red dicks. Baby _was_ them, but Patrick’s not sure it is any more.

 

He’s yanking at Pete’s zipper, fingers scraping against the metal teeth until he’s sure they’ll bleed but he can’t seem to coordinate his movements. An action that was once so well known it was practically muscle memory is foreign, alien, clumsy and disjointed because _when was was the last time?_ Pete thinks he’s stupid, thinks he doesn’t realise the visits are getting further apart, that he’s withdrawing his contact like heroin, trying to wean Patrick off him because he knows he’s addicted. He can’t bear to hear the truth so he never asks, tries to revel in the moment whilst half watching the clock; how many hours this time? How many precious minutes? How many hallowed goddamn _seconds_ will Pete afford him before he leaves him alone once more?

 

“Shh,” Pete soothes the sobs Patrick didn’t even realise were choking him, eases his hand back gently from his crotch and gathers him close, strokes his hair and rocks him slowly. “We don’t have to do this… If it’s too much we… I can…”

 

“No,” Patrick can’t bear to hear him threaten to leave, wipes at his eyes and furiously sniffs back the tears. Pete smells exactly how he always does; clean laundry and Paco Rabanne, faint sweat and warm skin. “I want this. I… I fucking _need_ this, Pete.”

 

Pete nods like he understands, the depth of the sadness in amber eyes so overwhelming it threatens to drown them both, to sweep them away until there’s nothing left. Would the tide drag them together? Leave them marooned some quiet place for just them? Or would it scatter them, throw them to different corners and leave them, leave _Patrick_ , desperate and yearning and _needing_. Would it really be any different to how it is now? He sinks his fingers into black hair, thick with product, drags Pete closer because he needs contact, needs lips and teeth, spit and tongues, all of the things that ground him in this moment and make it real. Pete _gives_ because that's what Pete does, he’s the same as he always was, he’s grand gestures and boomboxes held aloft on quiet suburban streets, he’s a walking John Hughes movie - _pretty in punk, the breakhearts club._

 

They stumble, trip and stagger their way up the last few steps to the hallway, toes snagging on one another, catching each lurch the other makes and righting them against bannister, wall or door. The bedroom is dark but for the moonlight streaming through the window like a suggestion of silver that lends an ethereal glow to skin and teeth and eyes. Pete once told him he suited sunlight as they breakfasted on a hotel balcony, their skin dappled with golden light. It was _Before_ , so much as Patrick divides his life into two neat segments of _Before He Knew Pete Loved Him Back_ and _After,_ so he’d just blushed and told Pete to fuck off. But if that was true, if Patrick truly does suit sunlight, then Pete - always his opposite, forever his complement - suits moonlight. He’s velvet shadows and dark corners, glances under lashes, touches under tables and whispering in ears and right now, in soft silver light, he glows.

 

They hit the bed in a tangle of half-discarded shirts, hit the mattress with gasps like wishes, colliding bodies like planets thrown wildly out of orbit and it takes a second, a pulse or two of frantic hearts and gasping lungs for everything to fall back in sync. Patrick’s on his back, fingers laced and locked with Pete’s and hands pinned to the comforter above his head, lean thighs bracketing his hips and a mouth that tastes of want and just a hint of sugary latte pressed flush to his. Pete pulls back and Patrick tries to follow, craning his neck until it aches, until he’s begging with a glance for more, please more, please _something_ , please…

 

“What do you want, baby?” Pete’s voice is a whisper, his cock, hard and straining the front of his jeans, the debauched promise of fulfilment. Patrick thinks. He considers and he ponders and - okay, yeah - he grinds his hips up, rutting against Pete’s crotch with melodious moans and sinful sighs. _What_ does he _want?_ He wants Pete back, wants a wedding ring back on his finger and a husband back in his bed and not just for these fleeting moments of self-flagellation like a fuck can make up for being alone. But that’s not what Pete means, he means in this moment, right at this moment in time with his dick hard and throbbing and his skin a tingling expanse of raw nerve endings. _What does he want?_

 

_“Everything,”_ he breathes, back arched and hips a messy suggestion of contact and need as he thrusts up with more desperation than finesse. He means it, he wants it all, wants lips and tongues, fingers, hands, wants to suck and be sucked, wants Pete inside of him just about as much as he craves being inside of Pete. He wants every sigh and each cry, each feathered touch and each nail sunk into soft flesh until skin breaks like promises. Like vows. _Their_ vows, the ones that meant nothing to Pete but everything to Patrick. Pete nods. Pete smiles like this is normal, like everything’s okay. Pete slowly unbuttons Patrick’s shirt and takes a tight, pink nipple into his warm, wet mouth and the gasp that tumbles from Patrick’s lips somehow forms words, soft and delicate. “Do you remember 2008?”

 

Amber eyes flick up with interest as a soft tongue circles, as the sharp pleasure-pain of bright teeth sinking into tender flesh sparks like electricity. He means Halloween, of course, a show in the London Dungeon amongst the props and set dressings. Pete nods again, blows a cool breath over heated skin and whispers softly, eyes alight with the memory of it, “When you sucked my dick in the serial killers display? Best blowjob I’ve ever had,” he pauses, head cocked, mouth a crooked slash of a grin, “it’s those fucking _lips_ …”

 

Patrick’s done with talking, doesn’t want to recount memories of holidays past that haunt him like ghosts, he just wants warmth, skin and lips and a hard cock. He guides Pete’s mouth lower, aches a little more with each tasting lick, each bitten kiss, the way Pete’s hand is so deft and sure on his zipper like he’s still well-practised when Patrick… Isn’t. Patrick’s fumbled and awkward, knees that don’t know where to go and hands that catch on buttons and zippers. But somehow it works, clothes are lost to the floor and the bed and… the fucking light fitting for all Patrick gives a shit right now. They’re gone and they’re naked and Pete is so fucking _warm_ , that canvas of artwork that Patrick could trace if he went blind laid out for his delectation.

 

He _devours_ Pete. Each swirl and line of ink is traced by tongue and questing fingertips. Every line of hard muscle is kissed and bitten and stroked until Patrick is straddling Pete’s thigh, panting and flushed sweaty, hard cock rutting desperately against hard hip, slick tip tender and leaking.”I’m going,” he begins, pausing to suck a bright mark to Pete’s throat, lips trailing to the satin shell of his ear and words groaned like they hurt, “to suck you ‘til you realise what you’ve lost.”

 

Pete - eyes closed, lip bitten, hands already fisted in Patrick’s hair - doesn’t reply, the arch of his hips response enough for Patrick as he slides off the bed, slides to his knees, slides between Pete’s thighs and finally, _finally_ , slides his mouth over the straining blood-dark heat of Pete’s cock. He groans like a prayer while Pete cries out like a song and it’s perfect, the taste of bitter salt and Pete’s skin so heartbreakingly familiar, the swell of his cock against the curve of Patrick’s tongue so well-known, and yet it grows more foreign each time. 

 

He needs more, presses Pete’s legs up so his soles are flat to the mattress, a whisper of _good boy_ as Pete arches his hips and shows Patrick that delicate pucker that he yearns for. He explores like he’s never been there before, lips and tongue first in teasing kisses and soft, wet licks until the air rings with pleas and sugar-sweet declarations. More now, broad strokes of his tongue, gentle circles of the pointed tip against the delicate rim of Pete’s hole until he begs, until he pleads and moans and it’s _Patrick, fuck yes, Patrick_ and nothing else. He adds a finger, then two, pressing in until he finds that spot that makes Pete’s legs jerk and hips twitch, tongue working around them tasting the heat and musk that is Pete, the taste that’s all him. Pete’s thrusting weakly into his fist, frowning like it’s taking everything he has not to blow his load in gossamer ribbons across his stomach or into Patrick’s hair. 

 

Patrick watches and tastes and dies inside because this can never be enough, always on countdown, always waiting for dawn to bring loneliness and heartbreak like every other dawn since Pete left him. He fucks his fingers into him just a little harder, drives his tongue just a touch faster, anything to draw out those desperate moans, those noises that are just for him, the ones he’s sure Pete’s never made with anyone else. 

 

“Stop,” Pete whispers, shuffling up and away from him, pressing back like he’ll no doubt do in a few hours, sliding out and away from Patrick’s body to steal away with the moonlight. Patrick’s cheeks are wet with tears and he swipes at them quickly, determined Pete won’t see him cry, he won’t give him the satisfaction. “C’mon, baby, let me take care of you…”

 

It’s tempting - impossibly so - to just give in. He’s done it before, just laid back and let Pete suck him, lick him, bite bruises like brands to his skin and fuck him with fingers that know him and a cock that never seems to forget exactly what he loves. But it’s not worth it, the passivity of it makes him even more emotional, it brings the tears and the clinging and the begging and tonight Patrick wants none of that. Tonight Patrick wants ownership, wants to send Pete away knowing he can’t escape Patrick, that they’re bound by more than a couple of bands of gold and a few cheap words. So he shakes his head as Pete frowns in the diamond flame of the moonlight, he pushes to his feet and takes a moment to just _admire._

 

Pete’s pale in the glittering light, stripped of colour and brightness and turned to monochrome, to grey skin and black ink that swirls and loops and curves and Patrick could trace each one blindfold, could mark each line with a fingertip, tongue, lips so burnt are they into his memory. And Pete’s smiling, sad and soft, as he slides closer, as he sits on the edge of the mattress and grasps the smooth solidity of Patrick’s hips, as his thumbs stretch and reach and trace over coarse, gold hair turned silver in the light like reverse alchemy. His cock is straining, a heavy ache that throbs with blood and need and though he doesn’t _want_ to hand over even a modicum of control to Pete, it’s too easy to slide his fingers into coarse black hair. It’s too simple to guide a willing mouth to his prick, to feel the suggestion of warm breath replaced by the reality of warmer lips, a wet tongue, the slick of soft, tender, hidden places caressing him like a prayer.

 

He groans. Pete’s name mingled with declarations and adulation and sweet, soaring song. He could die like this, could draw his last breath content with Pete’s mouth working his cock, a clever hand cupping his balls, stroking and teasing as eyes that glow green-copper-gold fix on those that glitter back like riptide at midnight.

 

“Fuck,” he whispers, as he strokes a stubbled cheek, as a willing mouth takes him just a little deeper. “You’re beautiful. I’ve missed you.”

 

There’s a nod and a squeeze of the flesh of his ass, eyes that say it all whilst saying nothing at all and Patrick still _needs_ and Patrick still _wants_ and Patrick still _knows_. So, he eases Pete back with a gasp bitten off like it hurts, pushes him onto his back with a hiss and a snarl, “Enough, you’re not in control anymore.”

 

Pete doesn’t argue, just raises his arms, crossing his wrists above his head on the mattress and spreading his legs, knees raised, the perfect image of supplication. He bites a bruise to Pete’s groin, just so he has an excuse to press his nose close and heave in the scent, the pheromones and skin, the sweat and soap, _Pete_ , intoxicating, heavenly _Pete_. Pete’s humming his approval like a chorus, Patrick’s layering his desperation underneath it like a curse. 

 

There’s a fumble for lube in the nightstand, a slick and a stroke for his cock and two fingers for Pete, stretching and opening as he gasps and sighs and arches, as his skin stretches and pulls taut over ribs and hipbones. His cock is blood-dark and hot, his hole spread out around Patrick’s fingers and if it isn’t the prettiest fucking sight… He’s pleading, eyes and lips begging for relief, for the release only Patrick can provide, he babbles declarations, that it’s only Patrick, only ever Patrick. But he doesn’t mean it because he doesn’t stay.

 

Patrick kneels on the mattress between spread thighs that strain upward as Pete tilts his hips to provide that perfect angle, to facilitate that slow slick of skin against skin that will bring relief. Patrick wants to resist, wants to shove him away and tell him he can’t do this any more, that the brief moments of escape aren’t enough to make up for the ever present crush of all-consuming loneliness that weights his heart like something solid, that drags at his lungs like drowning in air. But Patrick is _weak._

 

With a noise that could be a groan or could be a stifled sob, he grabs angular hips, he grabs and he lifts and he hauls until Pete is braced onto his thighs, until the head of his cock, blunt and thick, is pressed to the tight pucker of Pete. He pauses, lets heat radiate from body to body, lets Pete meet his eyes and lets Pete whisper softly into the silence, “Please…”

 

Patrick nods, quick-sharp jerks that burn his neck as his slick sliding hand holds steady and he thrusts forward. Each inch is exquisite, each fuck of his hips enough to elicit gasping little mewls from Pete. Someone is crying out like they’re in a beautiful kind of agony - Patrick realises, face wet with tears, that it’s him and bites his tongue until all he can taste is salted copper.

 

He watches Pete as he buries himself inside of him, he watches the way his jaw falls slack for a moment, the way his eyes flutter closed and his lips purse. He watches the way black hair slicks with sweat and sticks to his brow, the way the muscles in his thighs cord and elongate. He _watches_ like he’ll never see again because, at this point, who really knows when or if he ever will. He touches tattoos and tiny scars, freckles and moles that are all his, each brush of fingertips to heated skin a decadent luxury, each moaning gasp, each breathy sigh just for him, gathered and hoarded like riches.

 

He starts to thrust, deep-slow-hard, each roll of his hips met with a press back like the tide. There are heels in the small of his back as Pete hauls him closer on each drive in; in charge even when he’s pretending he’s not. Breathtaking, beautiful, perfectly imperfect Pete. Pete who murmurs the sweetest obscenities, the _harder_ and _deeper_ and _not enough_ and _want it all_. Pete who arches and cries out as Patrick obliges with hammering hips and a stiff cock that buries deep inside with each hard thrust. Every word is Patrick’s, every gasp and groan, each bead of sweat and slick of precome, all of it is _Patrick’s._

 

At least for tonight.

 

He collapses over Pete, feels hands in his hair and lips at his neck, teeth that sink into soft flesh and flash bright sparks of pleasure-pain. He captures Pete’s mouth with his own, punishing kisses that demand and conquer, tongues, lips and teeth that lick and suck and bite at one another until he’s sore and aching. He keeps his thrusts short and deep, keeps his eyes open when every instinct wants to let them fall closed. He forces them wide and he watches Pete, drinks in each feature, each expression, the way his lips twist and his eyelids flutter feather soft, webbed by veins. 

 

Pete grinds against him, rubbing the hard length of his dick against the softness of Patrick’s stomach, each thrust a yelping moan, a biting kiss, a mark sucked to Patrick’s neck as he fucks his hips against Pete’s harder and faster. There’s desperation there now, the aching need to come because it’s been so long, _too fucking long,_ since he felt the tight heat of another body around his cock. An eternity since it was Pete. But he won’t let go first, bracing up on a forearm hooked under Pete’s shoulder, wrapping his free hand around the solid, needing _heat_ of Pete’s cock. 

 

The cries intensify, the air alight with _fuck yes_ and _more, fuck more_ and _Patrick, yes, PATRICK_ and it’s satisfying, oh so satisfying, to hear his name like glory hallelujah, like a choir, thrumming through the room around them with the sweat and Patrick’s tears. Pete’s hands are curled around his neck, buried in his hair and dragging him closer like aching need and he’s so close. He’s so fucking close. He thinks he says it out loud, breathes it into the ear by his lips, knows Pete’s hips arch like he said something irresistible but he’s not sure, can’t be sure.

 

Pete tenses, tight and burning bright beneath him and Patrick slams into him as he watches him come undone with greedy, overwhelming need. Each contortion of pouting lips - Patrick’s. Each guttural groan of nonsensical syllables that falls from pouted lips - Patrick’s. Each slick slide of bitter salt that ribbons from Pete’s cock to pool between them caught in hair and slicked to skin - Patrick’s, Patrick’s, _Patrick’s._

 

The possession, that knowledge of ownership, is overwhelming, it scorches Patrick from the inside out, burning heat that ripples through him like waves until he’s crying out, the world expanding exponentially then retracting so fast his head rushes with it. There’s everything contained in the four walls surrounding them whilst simultaneously being nothing but Pete, the very world itself reduced to the tight heat sheathing his body, the teeth sinking into his shoulder, the nails blood bright against his back. His heart thumps and slams against his ribs like pounding fists and that beat, that never ending loop of thudding noise that shudders through his chest and snakes down into his groin. 

 

He screams his release laced with Pete and nothing but Pete, hips a messy stuttering slide as the air leaves his lungs, leaves the room and he’s rocking and clinging and coming thick and hard. Pete grips into him, breathes life into him from warm lips and fingers tangled in hair and honey gold thighs that grasp at cream pale hips like pure, unadulterated greed. Patrick collapses as the bright, burning pleasure subsides and leaves nothing but choking emptiness and bitter tears that fall onto Pete’s neck like heated accusation.

 

Pete cradles him close, his body in the bracket of sinewy hips as tawny arms snake around him and hold him close, rock him gently as he murmurs unending platitudes and empty apologies into his ear. Tonight, he promises himself, promises Pete, tonight he’ll stay, still be there in the morning to clear away the pumpkins and the lanterns and the stupid fake cobwebs Patrick strung - alone - across the porch. Pete kisses his cheeks, his jaw, the tip of his nose and his lips and swears he wishes he could, that he wants to stay but he can’t, _he can’t._

 

But the flood of bitter tears aren’t enough to drown him, aren’t enough to sweep him away to some place it doesn’t hurt any more. No, instead they dry to tracks of salt that tighten his skin and make his eyes sore and heavy and exhaustion seeps down into his bones. Pete pulls him close and murmurs reassurance, urges him to rest as he curls around him and strokes his hair, kisses every inch of skin he can reach.

 

“When will you be back?” Patrick murmurs into silver light and ink black hair. Pete tenses against him for a moment, hand drifting up and down the valley of Patrick’s spine.

 

“When would you like?” He asks, soft with invitation.

 

“Tomorrow?” Patrick suggests, more hopeful than he has any right to be, more agonised than he should be by this point. “Always.”

 

“You know I can’t,” Pete sighs. “Maybe your birthday…”

 

“But that’s _six months,”_ Patrick explodes, panic bright in his chest, painful and burning as he digs his fingers into Pete’s arm like he can force him to stay.

 

“You’ll barely notice,” Pete presses a kiss to his lips. “You should get some sleep.”

 

“No,” but Patrick can already feel the pull of it dragging him under, a heavy weight that pulls and tugs and proves so hard to resist. “If I don’t sleep, you can’t leave…”

 

“Right,” Pete agrees with a smile, pulling Patrick fractionally closer, lips grazing his temple. “I love you, baby.”

 

“I hate you,” Patrick whispers like a curse, relenting after a beat. “I fucking love you. So fucking much. Please, just… Stay?”

 

Pete just smiles, sad and slow. Patrick isn’t sure when he falls asleep but knows it must happen as he lies there staring at Pete, committing each feature to memory all over again. 

 

He wakes sharply to the burst of the phone on his nightstand, fumbling for it in the dark as the glowing numbers of his alarm clock inform him that it’s five in the morning. The screen declares it to be Joe and the groan from behind him reverberates softly around the room. Joe in New York never did seem to grasp that Patrick in Los Angeles is three hours behind. Arms slide around his waist in the dark, a little less firm than they were the night before, as he raises the phone to his ear.

 

“`Lo?” He mumbles, soft with sleep, barely raising his head from the pillow.

 

“Hey, man, just me,” Joe greets him with a kind of sad caution that, for a moment, Patrick doesn’t understand. “Just calling to see how you’re doing.”

 

“It’s five in the morning,” Patrick admonishes sleepily, winds his fingers with the ones at his stomach. 

 

“Oh, shit. Sorry,” Joe pauses but only for a beat. “I just… It’s the anniversary, right? I just… I was thinking about you. Both of you.”

 

Patrick frowns in confusion - it’s not his and Pete’s once-upon-a-wedding-anniversary for another four months. He’s too tired for it to make sense, just wants to sink into the warm arms wound around him and sleep.

 

“No,” he begins as lips brush his neck feather soft - too soft - then decides he doesn’t have the energy to argue. “I’m tired, dude. Can I call you back later?”

 

“Yeah, of course,” the concern in Joe’s voice makes Patrick’s chest ache as the light from his phone illuminates the nightstand and the things he doesn’t want to see. “I’ll call you in a couple hours. Sleep well.”

 

“Bye,” Patrick hangs up and quickly drops his gaze to the comforter. Pete presses closer but already feels further away, his voice a strange, thrumming echo when he speaks.

 

“Who was that?”

 

“Just Joe,” Patrick whispers, gripping the arms around him desperately as his eyes flicker to the nightstand once again. To the wedding photo in its heavy frame, he and Pete smiling and bright with anticipation of the life that stretched out ahead of them. To the velvet box in front of it that - Patrick knows - contains two platinum bands. The box Patrick hasn’t opened in years. _Until death us do part_. “Just go back to sleep and… I’ll see you in the morning, yeah? I love you.”

 

“Love you too,” Pete mumbles, soft with sleep.

 

Patrick closes his eyes and prays he can make it true, prays that in the daylight Pete will be there and real and solid. Prays that it’s not a scoop of ashes in a plain, simple urn and a closet full of ridiculous clothes he still can’t bring himself to throw away. Patrick prays even though he knows it’s futile. Six months. That’s not so bad. Better than never.

 

And when friends ask him why he doesn’t go to where they scattered Pete’s ashes, he knows he’ll just smile and tell them Pete isn’t there. Who knows where Pete goes between visits but for now, right now, he knows where he is and that seems to be enough as he closes his eyes and sinks back into sleep.

 

“Don’t leave me.”

 

“I never do.”

 

Do not stand at my grave and weep  
I am not there. I do not sleep.  
I am a thousand winds that blow.  
I am the diamond glints on snow.  
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.  
I am the gentle autumn rain.  
When you awaken in the morning's hush  
I am the swift uplifting rush  
Of quiet birds in circled flight.  
I am the soft stars that shine at night.  
Do not stand at my grave and cry;  
I am not there. I did not die. 

**Author's Note:**

> Uh...
> 
> Happy Halloween?
> 
> I'm sorry, okay. You can yell at me on Tumblr [HERE](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sn1tchesandtalkers) if you think it'll make you feel better?
> 
> Also, anyone that's reading Pretty In Punk, I'll be updating tomorrow instead because, honestly, I can't edit and format two things in one day!


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